


What You Leave to Chance

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon, Blood and Gore, M/M, Rave, Ravens, Recreational Drug Use, Shamanism, Zombie Apocalypse, death sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't chance that saves Jack's life, that guides him into the woods and away from the dead. It isn't chance that helps Eugene keep them alive on the bloody road to Abel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> '...the rave party is an event through which individuals can experience trances, religious rapture, deal with personal issues and of course have a really good time.' (Gibson, 1999)

It isn't chance that saves Jack's life, that guides him into the woods and away from the dead. Close enough perhaps for anyone who cares to listen, but it isn't chance.

The throbbing bass fills his veins, drags his heart along for the ride and his brain isn't far behind. It's invasive, the beat, seeping through his skin, the heat, the press of bodies, sweat-slick and fluid, and he's screaming along with them, these thousand revellers moving together, lost in the loop of visceral, primal movement.

Everything slips away, soft focus and fuzzed edges until there's just him, the bass a raw tattoo, matching his heart beat for beat, reverberating in his chest like a drum. His movements feel liquid and lithe, an invitation, supplication, mind wide open and empty to whatever pours in.

Jack opens his eyes and Sees the dead.

Grasping hands and grey grey grey interpose themselves on the mass of raves, dead flesh and hunger and Jack doesn't stop moving, _can't_ stop, he never can, riding out the vision even as he feels his screams turn real, tears stinging his eyes. He's searching, ducking outstretched hands, searching for something, for _someone_ , just out of sight, out of reach and he _needs_ them, needs to find them, like he's never needed anyone else.

Someone bumps into him and he stumbles, the vision shattering with the loss of movement. The beat of the music seems out of time, arrhythmic to his heartbeat. He falls against someone's chest and they right him with a laugh, neon glow light sticks burning his retinas. He turns slowly, the vision still flickering in his brain, the elated high of the rave gone and replaced with a bone deep dread that leaves him shivering from more than just cold.

He manages to find Rick in the crowd, out on the outskirts of the party. He's got a bottle of beer cracked open and Jack snags it as he stumbles over, chugging it quickly to get the taste of bile from his mouth. It settles heavily in his stomach, makes him feel nauseous and he slides the cool bottle against his forehead. 

“The hell man?” Rick grumbles, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway, and then he grabs another bottle from the cooler.

Jack stares at him blankly for a moment, uncomprehending, trying to drag his scattered thoughts back together. He looks over his shoulder, licking his lips nervously. Something is _coming_. He can feel it. “We-” He shakes his head, dragging his hand over his face, wiping away cold sweat. “We've gotta go, Rick. We- we've really got to- to get out of here.” His tongue feels heavy and thick in his mouth, and he knows his words are slurred.

Rick rolls his eyes and tosses Jack another bottle, water this time. “ _Christ_ Jack, the hell're you on? It's not even halfway over yet.”

Jack tears the lid off the bottle and drinks. He wants to guzzle the whole thing, but something holds him back, makes him stop halfway and seal the bottle and slide it into the pocket of his jacket. 

“I Saw something,” Jack says, gaze darting around uncertainly. He gives Rick a beseeching look. “We _have_ to go.” 

“Saw something?” Rick says incredulously. “I'm surprise you can see anything in th- oh god, Jack, you _didn't_ -?”

Jack blinks, stares dumbly at him and the itch is just getting worse. Each minute that passes is bad new, like a bomb counting down and it's such a cliché that he can't help but giggle, forgetting that Rick isn't privy to his thoughts.

It's the wrong thing to do, although he can't for the life on himself figure out why.

“You _did_ , you- fuck, jack, you promised. Nothing hard this time. I'm fucking sick of lugging your arse home when you're like this.” He sounds angry, and worse, disappointed, and Jack is suddenly very aware of how he looks; sweaty and dishevelled and glassy eyed. It feels like he's seeing himself through Rick's eyes for a moment. He can't quite string the words together to explain that he hasn't taken anything in months because they make the visions _stop_.

An arm lands around his shoulders and he startles, jerking away, breath coming in a terrified gasp. Time, he's supposed to have more _time_.

“Bloody hell, Holden, you're jumpy tonight. What's wrong with him?” The question is directed at Rick and Jack gathers himself enough to peer up. Ed. He recognises him. Relief washes through him. The three of them, they can leave together. Best friends since university. 

“I don't know,” Rick says. “He must've take something. He's really out of it.”

He knows he should feel irritated by being talked about like this, but it all seems terribly distant and irrelevant right now. At least until Ed's hand grasps his shoulder again, and he leans in, peering closely at Jack's face and all Jack can see is grey flesh and hunger. He recoils, eyes wide, breath coming fast and scared as he takes a stumbling step back. He trips backwards over the cooler, falling hard enough to wind himself, and he stares dazedly up at the sky for a moment. The stars look very very cold.

“Idiot,” Rick says, scrambling over to help. He offers Jack a hand and Jack lets himself be hauled up to his feet, a flicker of doubt entering his mind. Maybe... maybe he's wrong? Maybe they're right and he's just stoned mindless and riding out drug induced visions.

Behind Rick, Ed breaks off into a violent coughing fit.

Jack swears that he feels his heart stop for a moment, before he wrenches away from Rick's hand. “I'm sorry,” he says, before he turns and flees into the darkness.

“Oh hell, _Jack_!” Rick calls after him and Jack shoves his headphones over his ears and shuts out the world with a pulse of bass.

“Should we go after him, Rick?”

Rick sighs, thinks about it. “...no. Security'll grab him. He's trashed enough he'll probably freak if we chase after him.”

“Right. Wait 'til morning I gue- ugh.”

“You really should get that cough checked out, mate.”

“Yeah, I know. I'll call the doctor tomorrow.”

“You should. I think I'm coming down with it too.”  
He runs fast enough that there's that feeling of nearly flying, except he's pretty sure he's hurtling headlong towards a window he just can't see yet, that'll smash his skull and crumple his wings to rags and splinters. He should fall about a thousand times, uneven ground and tree roots and discarded drinks cans. He doesn't know how he manages, but he does, something urging him on and on until his lungs burn and his calves throb along the beat of the music. 

And then it stops.

He's alone and shivering and _empty_ and the music through the headphones is just music and not the drum of his heart and his breath and his thoughts. He lets out a strangled sob, muffles it against his sleeve because some part of him _knows_ that noise is bad.

There's a large tree nearby, a massive ash, dark branches visible against the faint lightening of the sky. He doesn't know where he is. Couldn't find the goddam car even if he wanted to and _god_ he does not want to go back there. Every fibre of his being rebels at the idea.

He stumbles the last couple of feet towards the tree and collapses against it, curling up in a hollow at the base. He's exhausted, body and soul. When he looks up, he thinks he can see black birds in the branches.

It's someone's foot connecting with his back that wakes him, sending pain screaming through him and he drags himself out of sleep. He's always slept like the dead, and the thought makes him snicker and makes him want to throw up.

His head pounds and the light _hurts_ in a way that light really shouldn't, but he peers up at the intruder, calmer than he probably should be. There are ravens in the branches above him, he notes idly. He's always liked ravens.

A man looks down at him, concerned and scared, a couple of years older than him, Jack thinks.

“Oh,” he says, smiling beatifically up at the man, feeling everything slide into place, “I've been waiting for you.”

And then they hear the zoms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eugene Woods is five years old when he wakes his parents in the middle of the night and tells them, with all of the solemnity that a five year old can muster, that grandad is gone.
> 
> There is much confusion until his parents realise that what he actually means is that grandad is **dead** , sometime in the night in the spare room of their house. Obviously the poor boy is traumatised by finding his grandfather and there are a few days spent nervously waiting for him to breakdown somehow until they realise that the eerie calm isn't going away.

So, this is how things stand for Eugene Woods. He has one car, out of gas and covered in at least a little blood and brain matter, one battered backpack, black, containing a notepad (why had he grabbed the notepad?), pens, a bottle of Coke, two bags of gummy worms (he has a sweet tooth, alright), a laptop and a couple of changes of clothing.

Oh, and one crazy English guy who looks like he's higher than the International Space Station and is staring at Eugene like he's some kind of ghost.

Kind of makes him wish he'd never got out of bed. Sure, he'd be _dead_ by now, but at least his brain wouldn't be seizing up at the prospect of the freaking Zombie Apocalypse. Which totally deserves the capital letters in his head, okay?

The possibly crazy, probably stoned English guy opens his mouth to say something else and that's when Eugene feels it.

It's difficult to describe it, the weird prickle at the base of his spine, the black ice that settles in his stomach and _knowing_ that what is coming is so fundamentally _wrong_.

“Oh _Jesus_ ,” Crazy English guy gasps, staggering to his feet with more grace than should be possible. He grabs Eugene's shoulder in a way that's uncomfortably comfortable.”The hell is that sound?”

It's that horrible groan that rakes sandpaper across Eugene's skin. Close, they're close, he _knows_ and instinctively he grabs the guy, pulling him up against the tree and he's alive, a flare of warm red in his senses against the encroaching rot.

“Seriously, man,” Crazy guy babbles, “they said you'd be here but- oh god wha-”

He's not gonna shut up, is he?

Eugene leans forward, kisses him _hard_ and even after that for a second, he's trying to speak, mouth moving against Eugene's until he finally seems to catch up and uh- _oh_ , kisses back like Eugene is air and he can't breathe. And that- that's quite... No! Damn it Eugene! Now is not the time for hormones.

Eugene catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eyes and pulls away with a soft gasp, tongue flicking out over his lips. He shoves the guy back against the tree. “Shut. Up!” he hisses, ignoring the flush on his face, the swollen lips.

The dead crest the rise, shambling through the trees in, well, neon pink and green fishnets and shaggy boots and a million bangles. Even Eugene has to stop and stare for a moment.

They feel like rot and decay on his senses.

“Go away,” he murmurs, uselessly maybe. “Go away, go away.” They're coming this way, oh _God_ , and he's **four years old and he knows that grandpa is gone so why's mom so surprised when she checks?** right in front of them **fourteen and he screams at the creepy guy in the old fashioned military uniform to leave him the hell alone and the the teacher gives him detention for making up stories** and they're so _wrong_ he can **twenty and he wants to ask why they're trying to revive that student 2 doors down because he's already dead, but he knows people never appreciate it** barely breathe.

Something shifts inside him, clicks into place, deep and dark, like it had back then, like it had a day ago, when the dead had swarmed his hotel. “Go away!” It clicks, and the dead obey.

If it had been a movie, Eugene thinks a little madly, they would've shuffled to attention and walked determinedly in the opposite direction. As it is, they just kind of shamble away like they've found something way more interesting to chase. Hunt.

Eugene sags, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and he only turns when the zombies are out of sight, reduced to pinpricks in his consciousness. Crazy guy (he has _got_ to find out his actual name) is staring at him, wide eyed and silent. Eugene gives a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He knows that look. Here's about where things usually go to hell.

Figuratively this time.

“The hell were those things?” Crazy guy asks instead.

Eugene raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? You don't _know_?” It's only been everything on every broadcast every hour for the past few days.

Crazy guy considers this for a moment, lets out a huff of breath. “Well, they looked like zombies but I'm pretty sure I didn't sign up for a Romero film.” His expression falters a little. “They were Kandy Kids,” he says quietly.

“What?” Eugene blurts.

“From the rave,” Crazy guy says, like that explains everything. Maybe it explains the crazy at least.

“Rave,” Eugene says slowly. “You missed the end of civilisation because you were at a _rave_?”

How has he ended up stranded in a forest with the one living guy in the world who doesn't know that the world is gone? Someone, somewhere, hates him.

“Wait, what? The end of civili-” He pauses, raises his hands to the headphones around his neck, expression going distant for a moment. “Oh,” he says breathily, a note of comprehension in his voice, and then he looks back up at Eugene, his gaze suddenly clear and sharp. “Yeah, we should go.”

“No kidding,” Eugene says dryly.

When did it become 'we' anyway?

Crazy guy starts walking purposefully, like he knows where he's going, never mind that Eugene had found him unconscious in the woods. “We should do more kissing too,” he says casually.

Eugene sputters. “What? We only just met! I don't even know your name.” Which is obvious the best argument right now.

Crazy guy turns a little, smiles, lopsided and sweet. “Jack Holden,” he says. “Keep up, Eugene.”

“Oh.” He's right. It isn't safe. He can _feel_ them out there, dead things.

Wait... when had he told Jack his name?


	3. Chapter 3

One person walking through the woods, or anywhere really, is an exercise in boredom. You know exactly where your feet will fall, an uninteresting bass line. Two people is a rhythm, beat and off-beat, harmony compensating for each trip and stumble. 

Jack should find it soothing, the feeling of a vision brought to completion, everything clicking into place. It's always felt that way before. But now... now he just feels like the floor has dropped out from beneath him, left him hanging helplessly over some horrific precipice and the valley below is full of the undead. His fingers tighten around the iPod in his pocket, reassuringly solid and cool. It feels real in a way that nothing else quite does right now.

Part of him sort of hopes that he had taken something last night and this is just the most coherent and linear bad trip he's ever experienced.

He only realises that he's stopped walking, rhythm stopped dead, when Eugene stumbles into his back. He glares when Jack turns to grin at him.

“Ow, the hell?”

“So,” Jack says, “zombies.” He can't quite believe that those words just came out of his mouth.

Eugene sighs and cocks his head slightly to one side, like he's listening to something. Maybe he is but it must be outside of Jack's range of senses because he can't hear anything, just birds and the rustle of leaves and he _thinks_ in the distance he can still hear the pound of bass from what must have been the rave and damn, no wonder that farmer had complained about the noise. Jack rocks on his heels, perfect 4/4 time and waits until Eugene nods and raises an eyebrow at him. “We've been walking for an hour and you're just figuring that out?” 

“Things're usually a lot more abstract,” Jack replied with a shrug and the blasé tone falls flat on the last note, his smile crumpling slightly around the edges. He reaches up to touch his headphones like they're an anchor or a talisman. “I never expected it to actually be night of the living dead. Or... pleasant afternoon of the living dead as the case may be.”

“How do you just... just _miss_ the end of the world?” Eugene asks incredulously. “It's been on the news for the last three days.” Jack kind of admires his restraint in not asking what the hell Jack is talking about.

Jack pauses, contemplating that for a moment, a frown creasing between his eyes. “What day is it?” he asks.

Eugene blinks at the apparent non sequitur. “Uh, Monday?” He has to think about it for a moment and that makes Jack worry, just a little. Certainty of time has always been a thing to ground him.

“Right so...,” he begins, and pulling together the tangled threads of what had happened the last few days is tricky when everything's a blur of sound and bass and pulsing lights. “I got here on... Friday? I think. Yeah. Friday.” He rubs his forehead, suddenly feeling very tired. What do you know? Falling asleep at the base of a tree does not lead to a restful night's sleep. “Sorry. Raves usually get a bit fuzzy after the first night.”

“I can't imagine why,” Eugene drawls, acid sarcasm and Jack can't help but grin in response, rubbing his hand over his chin and three day old stubble.

“And just your luck to get landed with a drugged up rave kid who's probably never done a real day's work in his life, right? That's how this conversation usually goes.” There should be bitterness there, but he's long since accepted that people believe what they want and it's not exactly inaccurate.

“Is it true?” Eugene asks bluntly, meeting his gaze squarely.

Jack blinks, thrown off his stride by that one discordant note. “Oh. Wha- okay, it doesn't usually go quite like that,” he says, stumbling over the words. “You're supposed to have made up your mind that I'm a waste of space by now. _That's_ how it usually goes.”

“You can't dictate how I make up my mind. It's _mine_ ,” Eugene says, sounding a little annoyed. “Besides, I was _supposed_ to be writing about food, not trying to avoid becoming it so what people are supposed to do seems kind of moot.”

Jack feels the blood drain from his face at that. He feels a little sick. “So... it really is like the movies then?”

Eugene gives the smallest of nods and Jack can see the tight line of his lips and how pale and tired he looks. “Yeah. Just like that.” He gives a strained laugh and part of Jack aches to find out what his real one is like. “I saw... back in London... well, kinda makes you wonder if Romero was onto something, right?”

Jack grimaces. “None of those films ever have good endings.”

“I'll settle for a non-fatal one,” Eugene says.

Jack thinks back on what he Saw through the sweat and ache of his dancing and smiles a little. “That might be doable,” he says, sounding more hopeful than he really felt. Everything past meeting Eugene was a hazy mess of grasping hands and fear and running, and felt like a mirage that could blink out at any moment.

“You sound very confident,” Eugene says and _ow_ , he sounds so suspicious it stings.

“Maybe I'm psychic,” Jack says blithely, winking at the other man.

“Right. Of course you are,” Eugene replies, and he's wearing his 'oh god, I've picked up a crazy person' expression again. In fairness, that's the expression that he's worn most since Jack met him so he's probably not the best judge right now. Maybe he just normally looks like that?

“Oi!” he says, a teasing note to his voice, “I'm not sure I should be taking such scepticism from the guy who just turned back the living dead.”

Eugene freezes, expression turning pensive and almost scared for a second, something dark flashing in his eyes before he looks away. “That- that was just chance. I mean wow, we're really lucky. Must've heard or... or smelled something else out there.” Some _one_ else doesn't really need to be added and Jack is fairly sure that's going to become a topic of conversation that people just skim over from now on.

...there are still people, right?

As denials go anyway, it's about as close to an admission as you can get and Jack watches him for a moment, remembering too many not quite joking comments about the state of his sanity 'god you must've been really stoned Jack, all those freaky _visions_ , mebbe you should get your head checked'. It brings a hint of bitter memory to him that he shoves down, like he pushes aside fear and turns to keep walking. He shrugs like Eugene's answer is no big deal, the thing he cares least about in the world, even though his heart is pounding at the one glowing idea forming in his head. “Yeah, we really are lucky.”

But it was never luck that dropped him in Eugene's path.


	4. Chapter 4

For some reason, Jack doesn't argue when Eugene says that they should really avoid that nice looking footpath that wins off towards the left, even though it seems deserted and flat and even. He just nods approvingly and starts scrambling through the thick undergrowth, heading in roughly the opposite direction.

Eugene casts a glance back along the path and shudders at the feeling he gets from it, before turning his back on the sign that says 'visitor's centre' and following quickly after the other man.

“Where will you head?” Eugene asks as they walk, because it's easier than asking questions like 'why did you say you'd been waiting for me?', or easier than hearing the answers anyway.

Jack turns, grinning at him as he walks backwards and shrugging. “You tell me.”

“Wha- no! Oh, no,” Eugene protests, shaking his head, his eyes going a little wide. “I'm not... a friend of mine. He has a farm. Up near Nottingham. I'm heading there but...” How do you politely tell someone that you don't think they should survive the apocalypse together? For all he knows, Jack is a drug addicted lunatic who'll try to murder him as soon as his back is turned. You know, if the zombies don't get them first.

“North's a good direction,” Jack says, apparently utterly oblivious to the underlying sentiment of what Eugene is saying. Or maybe he just doesn't care. Both options seem equally likely.

He's still walking backwards too. “You're going to break your leg like that,” Eugene says disapprovingly. And he won't stick around to help him.

Jack laughs, the sound reverberating through the trees, startling a flock of crows from their perches. “I'll be fi-”

He stumbles, starts to fall backwards, arms wheeling to try to keep his balance. It feels like everything slows down as Eugene lunges forward and grabs him, hauling him back from the edge of the trench.

Jack clings to him for a moment, breath warm against his neck and Jack shudders. Eugene can feel it right through his body. When Eugene pulls back, jack's face is pale and his eyes very wide, pupils seeming to take up most of them. 

“Wow,” he mumbles, swiping a hand over his face, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “Foreshadowing.”

“Foreshadowing?” Eugene realises how close they're standing and steps aside quickly. “We're not exactly in high school lit class here.”

Jack looks at him blankly for a moment, and Eugene has the distinctly unsettling impression that he isn't actually seeing him. Jack blinks though, and the moment passes with Jack giving a soft little laugh and shaking his head. “Sorry. It- ah, nothing. Deja-vu, I guess.” He doesn't sound entirely convinced with a sharp edge to his voice.

Eugene heads up to the edge of the trench, peering down into it. It's deep enough for someone to stand down there and not be seen unless someone was on the edge, and there's a sturdy stone wall in the bottom of it.

“Oh. A ha-ha,” Jack says, moving up beside him. 

“A what?” Eugene asks, ignoring the obvious joke.

“Uh, concealed wall in a pit an- stop looking at me like that,” he grumbles when Eugene raises an eyebrow. “My mum really likes visiting stately homes, alright?”

Eugene can't help but smirk, and he hefts his backpack up onto his shoulders before starting to scramble down.

“What are you doing?” Jack calls after him. 

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like you're scrambling into a pit but you know what I mean!”

He reaches the bottom, and turns to look up at Jackj. “Well, we kind of don't have another option. Besides, it's clearer here.”

“Alright,” Jack says after a moment, although he looks a little wary as he picks his way down the slope. If he'd acted more like that before then he wouldn't nearly have broken his neck because he wasn't paying attention.

It _was_ clearer actually, less of the bracken and brambles which had slowed them down and been noisy as hell. He doesn't know if the dead can hear but why take chances? 

“So,” Jack says cheerfully, “which way now?”

“I don't know,” Eugene replies. “Which way's north?”

Jack looks around at the suspiciously identical looking woodland in every direction. “No idea. Isn't there supposed to be a way of telling? Like lichen on trees or something?”

“I don't see any lichen on any trees,” Eugene says, frowning a little.

“If you get me to a motorway, then I can probably tell you,” Jack says.

“Seriously? A _motoroway_?” Eugene protests. “Full of people in cars quickly turning into the shambling undead? That motorway?”

Jack frimaces at the idea. “Alright! No need to get snarky with me. I'm new to this whole apocalypse thing, y'know.”

Eugene snorts softly, giving him a wry look. “Right, because this is a totally commonplace occurrence in Canada. Apocalypses. Apocali?”

“Apocalopodes,” Jack suggests brightly and okay, Eugene has to laugh a little at that, then makes a split second decision and points along the line of the trench. “That way. Soon as we hit a village we can ask for directions.”

Right. Just like a normal camping trip or something. Just keep thinking of it that way. It'll blow over soon, right?

Yeah, right.

They walk for another half an hour or so before they see it, a crumpled for in walking boots and a red jacket, neck twisted at a sickening angle. No chance of mistaking it for a peaceful sleep.

Jack jerks to a stop, eyes wide and wary. “Is that...?”

He doesn't need to say it. There's only one thing that he can mean. Eugene takes a wary step towards it, because it is an 'it', a flesh shell devoid of life. Might as well be a shop dummy. Eugene remembers _his grandad's funeral, the weeping and avoidance of anything that might suggest that he was actually dead. He'd tried to explain to the adults in black that grandad was gone and the the thing in the coffin was just a doll of meat and bone and **nothing** but he didn't have the words and that was the day he'd learnt that death was something that people feared_.

He's never understood that fear himself until he'd seen the dead walking through London, but this body, it's empty. A puppet with it's strings cut. Harmless. 

He lets out a sigh of relief. 

“It's just dead,” he says, glancing at Jack. “Not _undead_.” Saying that in all seriousness. What has his life become?

“Oh,” Jack says vaguely, and then frowns, a look of discomfort on his face. “I never thought I'd see the way when being in a ditch with a corpse was the lesser of two really shitty options.”

“Thought about it much, have you?” Eugene asks dryly.

“Not specifically, but I might have woken up in my share of ditches before,” Jack mutters, speeing through the words.

Eugene finds himself smiling a little at it.

“So what now?” he asks.

Jack gives him a confused look and wrinkles his nose. “Like what?”

“Well, what do we do with it? Should we... bury it?”

“What if someone's looking for them? Shouldn't we... I dunno, call the police? It's a _dead body_. In the woods. And-” He stutters to a half and seems to deflate, shoulders slumping. “Right, yeah, zombies.”

Eugene is fairly sure that 'zombies' is going to become a justification for a lot of things soon enough, and the thought seeps through him like ice water.

No-one is coming to help.

There's a thick, horrible silence for a long moment, the two of them stood there, looking down at the body, and Eugene knows the moment when the thought occurs to both of them, because Jack looks at him, tongue flicking out nervously against his lips. He looks very pale and very young and Eugene wonders if he looks the same despite the couple of days worth of stubble.

“Should we...” Eugene begins, because doesn't think that Jack will get the words out, “y'know. He's just gonna lie here.” And Jack is not dressed for the weather and gummy worms are not going to get them (them?) far and he feels a little sick for suggesting it but... it's just an empty shell.

Jack scrapes his hand through his hair and swallows. “Right. Yeah. Pragmatism.”

They both edge towards the body, because even if Eugene isn't scared like Jack is, there's still the moral argument of 'good people don't rob corpses. Or anyone. But especially corpses.'

Up close, the guy, the _body_ is young, maybe Eugene's age, maybe younger, dressed in jeans and a sweater and coat that looks hastily thrown on.

“Must've been running away,” Eugene murmurs. “Poor guy.”

Jack pulls back sharply, giving him an annoyed look. “Do you have to do that?”

“Do what?” Eugene asks blithely.

“That! Give a running commentary! I don't want to feel sorry for the guy whose body I'm about to rob!”

“It's not like he can hear you!” Eugene says, rolling his eyes. _That_ he is very sure of. He'd know if anything was... lingering.

Jack gives him a sharp look, far too intent and smart for the way that he's acted the rest of the time. Too knowing, and Eugene cuts him off before he can say anything. “I'm an atheist so... dead is dead.” It's not quite a lie, but it's not an answer either. 

“Well, so am I... mostly. Like, lapsed C of E because my mum liked to take me to church because they had tea and biscuits but... but that's not the point! It's a person and...” He makes a helpless noise of frustration and then turns away. “I can't do it! What if it's all over in a few days and we're the arseholes who dropped civilised behaviour after a couple of hours and-”

“Three days,” Eugene says quietly. He steps in a little closer, shoulder brushing against Jack's as he crouches down and checks the man's bag.

The first thing he finds is a wallet. There's a photo of a little girl inside and Eugene feels the sickness right to the pit of his stomach.

They both leave empty handed.


	5. Chapter 5

They run out of woodland an hour or so after leaving the body, and for a moment, Jack just stares transfixed at the open road beyond the fence. It stops his breath for a moment, the stillness wrapping around him.

“It's so quiet,” he says softly, glancing over his shoulder to look at Eugene. “It's only been three days. How can it be so... dead?”

Eugene snorts at the unintended pun and shrugs. “I don't know. People are fleeing. It spread really quickly. Last I checked the net and it had already spread to America.”

“But- but it shouldn't be _empty_ like this!” Jack says plaintively, and there's a kind of roaring sound building up at the back of his skull, pressure and white nice pressing against his eyes. He reaches up to rub at his temples.

“They were telling people to get out of the cities. Close contact and all. But- yeah. It's bad.”

Jack hauls himself up and over the fence, landing quietly on the other side and Eugene follows more carefully. There's a cluster of buildings up ahead along the road, a village, and Jack thinks he vaguely remembers driving through it on his way to the rave. There are crows circling above it.

“Should we...” Jack says, gesturing vaguely in that direction, unease churning in his stomach.

Eugene looks pensive, but nods anyway. “Unless you think gummy worms make a good meal,” he replies with a small smile.

“Oh, I love gummy worms!” Jack says, instantly brightening and giving a soft laugh when Eugene looks at him incredulously. “I mean... maybe there'll still be a shop open?” he suggests, looking at Eugene hopefully.

“Yeah, maybe,” Eugene says, sounding sceptical at best and yeah, Jack doesn't hold out much hope either but he's hungry and he just- just kind of wants to believe that it's not really that bad. Like sure, there are zombies, but that doesn't mean the end, right? The military must be on it, clearing them, and doctors and scientists and...

It should all be _fine_.

The roaring, rushing feeling in his head gets worse for a moment, threatening to spill out through him and he has to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly until it subsides. The tarmac is reassuringly solid beneath his feet. It feels _real_.

They make their way along the road, casting furtive glances around them, and soon pass the first houses, old stone buildings with some newer ones in between. Neatly tended gardens behind stone walls. Lace curtains. Parked cars.

Parked cars in the middle of the road.

“Uh. Yeah. That's weird right?” Eugene says. They give them a wide berth, no matter how empty and quiet it seems.

It's eerie, like one of those haunted village horror films and Jack swears he sees a curtain twitch up in one of the windows. For a few moments, he's more afraid of mad axe murderers or possibly an insane community association than zombies. Their footsteps seem to get louder as they keep walking, a funeral march in his head and veins.

They find a shop in the centre of the village, a two floor Co-Op which looks strangely open. The lights are on at least, and the doors open when they walk past. They share a look and Jack manages to smile despite the pounding still in his skull. “See, I knew we'd find a shop!”

“Yeah, thank you Cassandra,” Eugene replies, rolling his eyes.

They're both still hovering in the doorway.

“Oooh, no, not Cassandra,” Jack says, grimacing. “Fated to never be believed.” He couldn't think of much worse.

“Guess you'll have to prove yourself trustworthy then,” Eugene says, giving a lopsided smile that makes Jack melt, just a little.

“Oh well, I do like a challenge,” he replies.

A monstrous groan fills the air from somewhere beyond the nearest block of houses. “Inside then?” Jack says quickly once the breath in his lungs has unfrozen.

“Inside,” Eugene agrees, his eyes wide and dark.

The shop doors slide closed behind them, giving the illusion of safety. There's no-one at the counter, no customers in the aisles. No-one at all that they can see.

“Hello?” Jack calls out. Calls out _quietly_ which is pretty useless to be honest but something makes him hold back, be it zombies or insane villagers or just concern that the music might have really pissed someone off.

There's no answer. He's not sure what he'd been expecting really; a cheery greeting from the cashier?

“We should check the aisles?” Eugene suggests.

“Good plan.” He assumes it's a good plan at least, not having been in this sort of situation before.

There's only four aisles and the first one (fresh fruit and meat and stuff) is clear of people. The next aisle-

“Oh _god_.” Jack tastes bile at the back of his throat and claps his hands over his mouth, sure that he'd going to throw up.

One body, mostly intact is one thing.

One body, torn apart and resting on a bloody floor, that's quite another.

Eugene is at his side almost instantly, peering over his shoulder. He recoils sharply, making a noise of distress and revulsion and they both turn away, going to lean against the shelving at the end of the aisle, just breathing and trying to pretend that they can't both smell it now, the blood and the corpse.

“Good thing we don't need cat food,” Jack manages with a laugh that verges on the hysterical. After a moment, Eugene joins in until the laughs sound more like sobs and die on their lips.

It's difficult to just walk away and know that it's still there, but they manage to complete a check of the rest of the shop, finding nothing else except spots where stuff has been pulled off the shelves.

“Must've been in a hurry,” Eugene says, picking up a few tins and shoving them into his backpack.

Jack wavers uncertainly, glancing at the tills and biting his lip. He's pretty glad that Eugene doesn't comment when he drops a couple of grubby ten pound notes onto the till to pay for what they're taking. It's stupid he knows when there's a body in the aisle and the police just aren't coming, but it makes him feel better.

They're examining the fruit aisle when they hear it, a low, inhuman groan that sets the hairs on the back of Jack's neck on end. It's followed by a hideous wet sliding sort of sound. They turn as one and there's that corpse, torn apart and missing a leg and _dragging_ itself along the floor towards them, leaving a trail of ichor behind it.

Jack feels frozen, limbs struck senseless by the sight of it until Eugene drags him to one side, out of that aisle and into the next. Eugene's breathing is as ragged as Jack's own and _oh god_ it's still coming!

It's real. It's all horrible vividly real.

“Eugene, where-” because Eugene is scrambling away, over towards the counters where... oh, the pipe! That metal pipe that he's been lugging around since they met.

But the zombie's close now, eyes filmed over with white but still grasping and awful. Jack stumbles back out of reach, unable to tear his gaze away. He fumbles behind himself on the shelves for something _anything_. Time stretches out thin and fluid around him, blood and adrenaline pounding in his skull as he grabs a tin and hurls it.

It hits with a sickening crack, but it's still coming. The rushing feeling in his head back full force, pounding and pounding like the beat of drums.

He sees Eugene raise the pipe, but it's overlaid with that other sight, red seething in his mind; a man drenched in blood and laughing as he brings a bat down, a woman with eyes that are old, too old, and finally, horrible, a huge and terrible army of seething grey.

It lasts a split second of awful clarity, feels like a year. The last thing he sees as he stumbles and falls is Eugene bringing the pipe down on the zombie's head.


	6. Interlude

“ _Christ_ I ache.”

Simon Lauchlan stares up at the ceiling, feeling the ache throb in his muscles, in his very _nerves_ even. When he does move, it's with the stiffness normally reserved for the day after a good workout.

“The hell did I do?” he mutters as he pushes himself into a sitting position. It's only then that the rest of his sense come back online full force and everything hits him at once; the stench of blood and flesh and spilled booze, and the sight of bodies littering the main room of the bar.

“Jesus...” he hisses, pulling himself quickly to his feet, the world spinning for one precarious moment.

He nudges one of the bodies with his foot, watching with dull interest as it flops over, revealing a skull half smashed and a face twisted in terror.

_Paul screaming when the grey gets in, waving that knife of his. Paul screaming as the Red descends, the crack of his skull and he doesn't scream anymore._

Simon takes a shuddering breath, forces down the part of him that wants to puke and looks again at the bodies. They're all grey, even the ones of them that weren't y'know, _Grey_ , skulls broken, split open like overripe fruit. He's never seen brains up close before. They look like of like fat pink slugs, the bits on the floor.

He giggles at the thought because it's morbidly, horrifically _funny_ right now, and you laugh at funny things, that's just what you do.

He's still grinning as he stumbles into the bathroom and wrenches on the tap. He looks up into the mirror and grimaces. Blood streaks his face and neck, and his arms and shirt aren't so much streaked as drenched in it. Loo roll and water aren't gonna do much for this, are they?

The pub has an upstairs flat. He's stayed over before when he's worked late and had a few afterwards and he knows that it's empty now because... well, there's a pile of bodies in the bar and he's worked here long enough to recognise the Landlady.

The flat is empty and silent but otherwise untouched. He locked the door before heading in and turns on the TV, just for some kind of company. Silence has never suited him.

Static. That creepy girl on the test card. More Static.

One of the satellite channels yields an exhausted looking news reporter who looks one wrong word from tears as she talks about the spread of the outbreak. The footage is shaky, taken from a high window, because even reporters aren't that desperate to get award winning images right now. You can still see them though, the ones who've gone Grey, or, as Simon prefers to call them, 'the shambling undead monsters'.

The shower still has running water, hot too, and he takes his time, soaking until the water runs clear from his hair and body.

He'd drying off when there's a scream from the TV, and by the time he gets out there to look, it's gone to static too. He waits a few minutes while he pulls on a fresh t-shirt and jogging pants, all that he could find in his size, but the TV never comes back on.

It's a bit sick maybe, to eat dinner in someone's house when you know that they're dead, that their bodies are downstairs with the zoms. And Simon sways on his feet for a moment, bile rising to the back of his throat.

God, they're all _dead_.

That rage boils inside him, overflowing until red starts to seep into his vision, and he hurls the remote at the TV, smashing up the screen and silencing it for good. It leaves him sucking in deep breaths, struggling for control of himself.

Finally it subsides enough for him to breathe again without feeling it burn. He stumbles into the kitchen. The world has fallen apart and there's no point in sentimentality.

Food and coffee bring him back to himself a little, and banish the red film that's kept everything distant and silent. When he's finished eating, he just sits for a few moments, head in his hands. 

“Get a grip, Lauchlan.”

He moves only when he hears movement from downstairs, followed by a crash; probably the last of their barricade falling. Simon drags himself up and peers out of the window.

More undead, a grey mass, but the fire escape is still clear. He packs what food he can into an old rucksack, takes hold of the still bloodied baseball bat that he'd used downstairs, and heads out into the new world.


	7. Chapter 7

“Hey, you're awake.”

Jack groans like the dead and Eugene thinks for one horrible moment that he's bitten, that he'd been a second too late, that he'd missed the bite when he'd dragged Jack into the storeroom. But Jack opens his eyes and they're clear and conscious, albeit a little confused. He doesn't start coughing right off either.

“Eugene?” He clears his throat painfully and Eugene leans over to hand him a bottle of coke. Jack takes it gratefully, downing half of the bottle in one go, and then he just sits, staring at the floor. That's it. Staring.

“Jack?” Eugene asks, still wary. “Are you okay? What happened? You uh- epilepsy or something?” Not that it looked like an epileptic fit but he can't really say he has much experience outside of the occasional medical drama on TV. He isn't sure how he feels about travelling with someone who could have a fit in the middle of a zombie attack honestly. It seems like a liability.

“What?” Jack says absently before the words seem to catch up with him. “Oh! No. No I don't have epilepsy. Or- or any kind of disease. Not that I know of.”

“Right,” Eugene says slowly, his scepticism bleeding through into his voice. “You know that you collapsed, right? Went all glassy eyed and pale and then passed out. Good thing I managed to kill that zom.” He still has spatters of blood and- and _stuff_ on his clothes, but a pack of disinfectant wipes and copious scrubbing in the employee bathroom had got rid of what was on his skin. It had still taken some nerve to make himself eat afterwards.

“Yeah. Thanks for that,” Jack says, smiling uncomfortably. “I guess I just- well, rave aftermath and all. Probably low blood sugar or something. I haven't really eaten since the party started. The rave party not the apocalypse party.” 

The way he says it makes it pretty obvious that it's more in the 'or something' category. Just what Eugene needs. A doped up rave kid.

“You should probably eat then,” Eugene says, biting his tongue to keep from asking anything more probing. God, he's known the guy for a handful of hours. “What's your poison?”

Jack blinks dumbly for a moment, looking around like he's only just noticing where he is.

“We're in the storeroom,” Eugene says sharply, before Jack even has the chance to ask. “It seemed the safest bet,” he adds, his tone softening a little. “Up a flight of stairs and the door seems pretty sturdy.” He's _hoping_ that they suck at stairs like they do in the movies, or they may have problems.

“That's... good?” Jack says and he still sounds distant, absent, like he's thinking on a completely different plane to the rest of the world. It's pretty disconcerting, especially when Jack looks at him and Eugene gets the distinct impression that he's seeing something entirely different.

Eugene leans forward, waving a hand in front of Jack's face. “Hello? Earth to Jack!”

He startles, and clarity slowly bleeds back into his gaze. “Right! Sorry. Just thinking. You meantioned food? Or did I imagine that?”

Eugene sighs, but he can't quite stifle a small smile. He gestures expansively to the shelves around them, the boxes and tins and fridge units. “Take your pick.”

“I don't- I think I stuffed most of my cash in the till.” He looks so worried about it too, like this is anywhere close to a normal situation. 

“It's okay,” Eugene replies, “I smashed the cashier's skull in with a pipe. I don't think he cares anymore.” 

Jack looks faintly sick and Eugene gives him an apologetic look, his shoulders slumping. “Sorry. Near hysteria made that seem a lot funnier in my head.” Oh god, it shouldn't have been so _easy_.

“Oh, I get that all the time,” Jack says, flashing a smile in return, all toothy and boyish and it- it's kind of charming actually. Jack pushes himself to his feet and goes to poke around the storeroom.

Eugene watches him for a moment and then pulls out his phone. Some of the news sites and Twitter feeds are still updating at least, although it's sporadic at best and there's fewer updates than there had been even yesterday. News of the spread, of possible safe zones and yeah, that list is definitely shorter than it was yesterday. More and more often there are survival tips, trying to reach as many people as they can before the network goes dark. And it will go dark. They've ben pretty clear on that, giving estimates on how long it can hold out. 

He tries his dad's number again but gets nothing. The call doesn't even connect. Same with the number for the paper back home. He gives up after a couple of tries and switches the phone off. There's a power outlet that he plugs it into, crossing his fingers and sighing in relief when it actually starts charging.

He's getting his laptop out when Jack returns with all the makings of a fairly good sandwich and more snack food, pies and those meat-egg things, than the human body should be able to cope with.

“What?” Jack says when he catches Eugene giving him a _look_ , all wide-eyed innocence.

Eugene sighs and shakes his head and tries not to watch as Jack shoves as much of the sandwich (is that pastrami and mayo and peanut butter, seriously?) into his mouth in one go as he can.

“That,” he says, “is disgusting.”

Jack wipes a bit of mayo off the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and gives Eugene an offended look. “Rude! I think that after waking up in the woods only to be chased by the ravenous undead, I can eat whatever I want!”

“You eat like the ravenous undead,” Eugene replies, smirking a little.

“Don't think I don't see the crisp packets hidden behind that box! At least mine has vegetables in it.”

“Potato is totally a vegetable,” Eugene says and maybe shoves the unfinished pack of chips further behind himself. “I was thinking more about mixing peanut butter with mayonnaise.”

Jack gives an exaggerated sigh. “Just my luck to be trapped in the apocalypse with a food critic.”

Eugene snorts. “You have no idea.”

Jack seems perkier now that he's eaten at least. Less haunted. He pats down his pockets and pulls out a slightly battered phone. He pokes at it for a few moments and then tries to make a call, but his face falls after a couple of attempts and Eugene gives him a sympathetic look.

“No answer?”

Jack shakes his head, chews his lip pensively. “No. But my mum is... she's not good with phones so...”

“Yeah, that's probably it,” Eugene says, hoping that he sounds more reassuring than he feels.

“Exactly,” Jack says, looking down at the phone again and for a moment he seems very very young.

“You should probably save the battery,” Eugene suggests.. “Try in the morning maybe?”

“Yeah. You're right,” Jack says quietly. He switches it off and shoves it back into his pocket then sits, knees drawn up to his chest. “I always thought the looting part of the apocalypse would be more fun.”

Eugene blinks at him. “You've actually thought about that?”

Jack shrugs one shoulder. “Well, yeah. I mean, who hasn't? You get free reign to do whatever you want, what would you do? I mean, not that we should. I'm sure something will come up. The military or the government or something. They'll sort it out.”

“For a guy with an anarchist pin on his shirt, you have an awful lot of faith in authority.” Because he really doesn't want to think about the number of military bases on the list of red zones.

“Oh, this! No. One of the guys at the rave gave me it. I'm more of a techie type than anything. I guess. That's how I got there.” He's silent for a moment. “They're probably dead aren't they?” he asks bluntly, looking up at Eugene.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Eugene replies and he wishes that he could lie and say they were probably fine but they'd seen the evidence themselves.

A shudder works it's way through Jack and Eugene pretends he doesn't notice the way his eyes squeeze shut, a pained expression on his face.

“We should sleep,” Eugene says finally. It's dark outside by now and he hasn't slept since... yesterday? The day before? Too long.

“Right, good idea,” Jack mumbles. “Should we, y'know, set a watch? They always do that in books and stuff.”

Eugene thinks for a moment. “Probably a good idea. You want to sleep first? I'm probably gonna sleep for a while once I'm out.”

“Sure,” Jack says. “Wake me.”

Eugene nods and grabs his pipe, going to sit facing the door, gripping it tightly while Jack fashions some kind of bed out of old uniforms and bubble wrap, muttering to himself as he does it. He falls silent after a while, although Eugene can't tell if he's really asleep.

It''s sometime during the night when he hears a scream from the road outside. He closes his eyes tightly shut, grips his pipe, and pretends not to hear.


	8. Chapter 8

They survive the night.

Jack's never really felt like that's anything other than a given before, despite comments made about ex-boyfriends and some of the company he keeps, but that's just parental over-protectiveness and they never really meant it. Not much anyway. 

Today though, when they leave the shop and find the pavement and doors smeared with drying blood and a half eaten corpse trying to claw at their ankles, it definitely feels like an achievement. Managing to not throw up when Eugene's pipe makes quick work of it is probably an even bigger achievement.

At least he's sort of equipped now. They'd found a satchel upstairs in what looked like a break room (mercifully empty) and it's stuffed full of as much food as he could fit in it. It's not ideal; the strap digs into his bony shoulder and it feels unreasonably heavy even by the time they get to the carpark at the other end of the village. Must have been a touristy place looking at the cars still parked there and Jack wonders if there's a bunch of Londoners now shambling around their rural holiday homes.

“We could just borrow a car,” he suggests as they pass, glancing longingly at a sturdy looking Volvo. “We could shove so much food in there.”

Eugene gives him a _look_. “You want to steal a _car_?” he asks incredulously.

“Borrow! I said _borrow_!” As soon as all of this blew over then he'd find the owner. Or their surviving next of kin.

“You wouldn't even take food from an abandoned store last night without paying, and now you want to take a car? How would we even start it?”

“That's different,” Jack says petulantly. He isn't entirely sure _how_ , but it is. Eugene does not look convinced. “And we could just hot wire it, right?”

“Do you even know how to do that?” Eugene asks, sounding thoroughly sceptical. Jack is a little offended by the slight to his abilities actually.

“I might have seen it done,” he says. Jeff, when he was seventeen and Jeff was twenty-two, had done it to show off when he wanted to pull and _well_ it had kind of worked. On Jack anyway. His mum had been less impressed. “Do you think we should?”

Eugene gets this look, like he thinks Jack is about to mug him or something. Jack's almost surprised the guy doesn't just start edging away from him. Instead he just taps on the screen of his phone before holding it up so Jack can see. “Take a look. Latest traffic maps. Can't imagine things've got better.”

The map is a network of bright red accident hotspots and traffic jams. Every major road for miles around and quite a few minor ones. Jack scrolls a little and it's not just Hampshire. London is awful, worse than normal, and Birmingham. Every city spreading slowly outwards into the countryside.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Eugene says flatly. “I'm surprised I got as far as I did. I would probably have had to dump the car before too long, even if I hadn't broken down.”

“That's...” His mouth is dry, the enormity of the situation hitting him hard enough to sway him back on his heels. The whole road system, people fleeing cities and just clogging things up. “It's real isn't it?” he says quietly. “It's really happening.”

“The zombies didn't tip you off?” Eugene asks.

“I could've been hallucinating!” Jack says. He doesn't believe it really, but it wasn't without precedent and the truth of what he had seen had been too enormous to grasp then, spaced out and fractured as he was. But he'd Seen it. The dead. Endless masses of them and he'd hoped, well, he'd never been one to believe in prophecies of doom. Maybe he'd hoped it would be some allegory.

Something _lunges_ against the window of the car closest to them and Jack jerks back, his heart hammering loudly in his chest. “Oh god!”

It had been a woman, long brown hair and a nice business suit and grey sagging flesh that belonged on a corpse. Her eyes are filmed over and the makeup looks obscene now, smeared over deformed grey skin.

Eugene looks sick and pale, his pipe raised defensively even though the door is closed. “I think she- _it's_ trapped by the seatbelt,” he says, slowly lowering the pipe when it becomes clear that the zombie can't get at them.

“That's just... just _horrible_ ,” Jack says, taking a hasty step away at the thing lunges at the window again, scraping it's hands against the glass. “Let's get out of here.”

“No argument from me.”

They walk to the edge of the village without seeing another soul and then keep walking along empty roads and public footpaths. They think they see a few people at one point out along the road, but they're gone by the time the two of them reach that point. They don't dare shout for attention, just in case. A car approaches and screeches past without slowing. At least the GPS on Eugene's phone is still working, guiding them in a vaguely northerly direction.

They keep trudging along, the horizon slowly beginning to darken at the edges and it's when they can barely see the ground in front of them that they decide they have to stop soon, primal fear of what might be lurking in the woods and fields on either side of the road prickling along the backs of their necks. They don't even see a zombie coming like this, and so far all that's kept them safe is that they've seen the dead first, the occasional solitary shambling figure easily avoided in daylight.

“Who knew Hampshire was so deserted,” Jack says morosely, huddling down into his coat which had belonged to someone quite a bit larger than him and who is probably dead by now.

God, that's a morbid thought.

“This is kind of what I was expecting when I came over actually. The first time I visited anyway,” Eugene admits with a wry smile. “Rolling countryside, little stone farmhouses and winding roads. The Brontes.”

Jack pauses a moment and gives him an incredulous look. “The Brontes were from Yorkshire and Yorkshire's like... well, nothing like this really.”

Eugene looks him up and down for a moment and Jack can't tel if it's a good look or a bad look. It's a searching look anyway. 

“What?” Jack asks after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Nothing,” Eugene says hastily, averting his gaze like he'd been caught peering into the girls' showers at school. Not that Jack had any experience of that but he'd seen the boys who had.

It's another half mile or so, trying to avoid potholes and the gulleys at the sides of the road, before Jack points to something at the top of the next rise. It's a dark blur on a dark sky but it definitely looks like a building. “Is that a barn?”

“I don't see anything,” Eugene replies, peering in that direction. “There's nothing there.”

“There is!” Jack insists. “There's a barn up there. Just over the rise.”

“How can you even see it if it's over the rise?”

“I just... I just _know_! What have we got to lose?” Jack replies and when he looks again there's nothing there, but he knows, he just knows, the same way he'd known not to eat the eggs at that café one time after a rave and Rick and Ed and Stuart had been dog sick afterwards.

Eugene opens his mouth to reply. A low inhuman moan shatters the silence.

Whatever he might have been planning to say is forgotten. “Let's go.”

There's three zombies by the time they reach the bottom of the rise. A couple of hundred metres away. Jack's side is throbbing with a stitch. Damn it, he knew he should have started going to the gym.

A hundred metres behind and seven strong when they reach the top of the rise and oh _god_ , it is a barn! A big old wooden one nestled in a dip in the land. They race down to it as fast as they can, slipping a little on the grass. The doors stand wide open and it's dark inside, but they can't hear any moaning from in there. 

They can _definitely_ hear moaning from behind them.

“Inside?” Jack glances over at Eugene.

“That sounds wise,” Eugene replies.

They hurry in and Jack begins to close one of the doors, Eugene taking the other. God, he can see them out there, shambling figures in bloodied clothes, so like his vision and is this it? He'd never seen anything _beyond_ the dead. Has he just been following it to his inevitable demise?

Jack pushes a little harder. The door moves faster.

Closer. They're getting closer.

The doors slam shut and they hear the impact of flesh against wood. Jack braces himself against the door, back pressed hard against rough wood and knees locked. “Bar! There's got to be a bar!”

Eugene looks around, spots it, dashes towards where it's leaned up against the wall. Jack feels the door begin to push back and he's only one, on against many. He slides an inch forward, closes his eyes, expects the inevitable.

“Push!” Eugene is back beside him, throwing himself against the door to close it again and jamming a length of wood through the metal hooks. The door wobbles with the force of the next impact but holds and Jack has enough time to throw the bolts at the bottom. He back away and god, he's shaking all over, his hands trembling.

“We should barricade it,” Eugene says, jerking his head towards the bales of hay and the junk that had accumulated.

“Yeah,” Jack says, wincing when there's an impact. The door holds, but who knows how long that will last?

They lug over some of the hay bales and an old trailer and pile it up in front of the doors. It muffles some of the noise at least. Not enough, but some.

“Why can it never be a sexy vampire apocalypse?” Jack mutters, scraping a hand through his hair.

Eugene gives a soft snort. “What, like that would be better?”

“Well, yeah,” Jack says, managing a weak smile as he scoops up his bag. “At least I'd be dead pretty.”

“You are such an idiot,” Eugene says but Jack can see the way his lips tug upwards and hey, he's had worse reactions.

“Hayloft?” he asks, glancing over at the ladder.

“Definitely. I don't want to be down here if they break through.”

“Thank you, Mr Optimistic,” Jack says and sets his foot on the first rung. “You don't think that they can climb do you?”

Eugene nudges him, his hand warm against the small of Jack's back for a fleeting moment. “I am now,” he says. “Get up there before we find out if they can run and use rudimentary tools.”

Haylofts are nowhere near as romantic in real life as the movies would have you believe. It's damp up there and the hay scratchs and digs in in uncomfortable places and there's a definite smell of cow or horse or _something_. Jack isn't sure. He's never been a country boy.

They huddle down together and it's kind of impossible not to touch, awkward and uncomfortable as it is. Or at least, as Eugene seems to be. Jack's never had a problem with casual physical contact.

He checks his phone to try to occupy himself, like he'll be able to block out the sound of things hurling themselves against the doors. He tries to ring home again but there's nothing. “it's just a bad place for signal,” he mutters to himself, trying not to let desperation creep into his voice.

“Right,” Eugene says. “I'm having the same problem.”

“It never worked that well anyway,” Jack says, switching the damn thing off and shoving it back into his pocket. “I saved up for a new iPod instead. Want to listen to something? The groans of the undead make a terrible bedtime soundtrack.”

Eugene hesitates for a moment and then nods. “Yeah, why not?”

Jack beams and passes over one of the earbuds. The music is upbeat, bright and loud enough to drown out the noise from below, and Eugene is warm against his side.


End file.
